Thanks to my nicks and scratches, I looked like my barber was Sweeney Todd. They stung. I was tired. And thirsty. And as always, I was hungry. More than that, I had zero interest in meeting with “women from the network.” That would most likely be Carmen Sandoval and her attentive slavegirl Whisper Jansen. And probably Vida Evans. Dedicated network employees, eager to discuss Worldwide’s response to the tragedy. That was the last thing I needed after experiencing what I could accurately describe as the worst night of my life.
Knowing the company mind-set, I suspected the first question could easily be a paraphrase of the old joke about Mrs. Lincoln: “Other than that, Billy, what did you think of the show?”
I’d have to meet with Carmen et al. sooner or later. But later was better.
I rolled up the probably ruined tux I’d been wearing and stuck it into my overnight bag, along with the other utensils I’d needed for the show.
I’d learned through experience to turn off my cellphone before leaving the dressing area. You don’t want an incessant ringtone annoying people backstage. I clicked it on and quickly scrolled through the calls it had registered. Apparently, once you’ve survived a fatal explosion, it seems everybody wants to talk to you. That included, among others, Cassandra, Carmen, Vida, Harry Paynter, and Kiki. Even Stew.
I’d return the calls later, when I’d settled in at a hotel. I slipped the phone into my pocket, picked up my overnight, and left the room.
Standing in the hall, I steeled myself and headed for an exit.
The LAPD had slapped an official yellow keep-out tape across the entrance to Des’s dressing room. Though the tape was adhering to the closed door, one end of it was torn and hanging free.
Somebody had broken the police seal.
Just as I was contemplating this breach of the law, the door opened and Fitz exited the room.
“Billy!” he said, jerking in surprise. “Jasus. You nearly put the heart crossways in me.”
He was still wearing his white tux pants and green T-shirt, but he’d dumped the coat and hat. I didn’t see any cuts or abrasions, but his eyes were red, and he had, past the slightly matted beard, the pasty-faced, frazzled look of a man who’d been through the mill.
He was carrying something. A bulging soft leather man-purse.
“Aw, but it’s awful, ain’t it?” he said. “Des … poor goddamned Des.”
“Poor Des, indeed.”
“You look like you took some damage,” he said.
“Nothing too serious. What about you?”
“The blokes and me, we were pretty far back from the blast. An’ that screen in front of us … it blocked the soot and crap that was flyin’ about. I jus’ keep wishin’ … aw, hell, if only he’d listened to me.”
“Des? If he’d listened to you about what?”
Fitz shook his head. “Nothin’. Not important now.” He was starting to edge away.
“The police talk to you?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. Tall black lady. Detective … Campbell. It was kinda weird.”
“Weird how?”
“I figgered the chin-wag would be all about Des. And there was a lot of that. But she also wanted to know about you.”
I suppose that figured, since Brueghel believed I’d been the target. “What kind of questions?”
“How long I’d known you. Did I know any of your friends? Had anybody been askin’ me about you? Like that. T’wasn’t much I could contribute. Like I told her, we just met last week. Ah, Billy, I better be runnin’…”
“Running because of that?” I asked, pointing to the broken tape.
He stared at me. “I didn’t harm nuthin’.”
“What’s in the bag?”
He hesitated, then sighed and said, “Medicine.”
“Drugs?”
“Nuthin’ heavy. Jus’ some oxy, Percocet, Ecstasy. A little pot. Some white.”
The man was carrying a portable drugstore. “Just light stuff like that?”
“Yeah. Still, I wouldn’t want people sayin’ Des was, you know, an abuser.”
I considered asking him what he planned on doing with the stash, but in truth, I just didn’t care.
“You’re not gonna play the informer?” Fitz asked.
“Just because you broke a police seal to remove drugs from a murder victim’s room?”
Even half hidden by beard, his face registered dismay.
I shook my head. “I won’t say anything unless the detectives make it an issue. And that doesn’t seem likely.”
“You’re a good egg, Billy,” he said, relieved. “I better get out of here with this stuff.”
He headed toward the rear of the building.
“Hold up,” I said. “Where are you going?”
“To the alley exit,” he said. “I sure as hell ain’t gonna carry this past a line of coppers.”
He started walking again, and I was walking with him. It felt like the thing to do. The other direction seemed a little crowded.
“What makes you think there won’t be police in the alley?” I asked the big man.
“ ’Cause I just came in that way. Nary a one.”
He was right. The alley was clear, except for his Hummer, parked with the engine running. As he was about to get in, he asked, “You headed out to Malibu?”
“No. I’m staying in town.”
“Need a lift, then?”
“Thanks, Fitz. I’m okay,” I said. The way the night was going, I didn’t want to risk riding in a pea-green Hummer with a scofflaw Irishman behind the wheel and a bag full of illegal drugs resting between us.
“Later, then,” Fitz said, and rolled away down the alley, heading east. I walked off, heading west.